


Defense.

by diemarysues



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-01
Updated: 2012-11-01
Packaged: 2017-11-17 13:08:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/551904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diemarysues/pseuds/diemarysues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sparked from the story of someone's (I've forgotten who, I'm sorry!) PE teacher who looked like Martin Freeman, and had this to say on the subject of defensive hand positions in basketball: “Imagine you’re about to masturbate; put your hand in your inner thigh, near the pelvis."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Basically, John Watson as a PE teacher.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Defense.

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed, because I am horrendously lazy. Some Easter Eggs within.
> 
> Also, I'd like to clarify right now that I am terrible at basketball and it probably shows.

“How was the interview?”

 

“Fine. It was fine.” John was – for once – thankful that his flatmate was a sociopath. It meant that he wouldn’t be questioned on the terseness of his reply.

 

“Did you get lunch?”

 

“No, because you said you would.”

 

“…did I?”

 

A second’s pause. “Indian?”

 

“Number 7 and number 28.”

 

It took but a moment to open the takeout menu drawer and extricate the multicoloured _Light of Nepal_ one. He perused it, and asked lightly, “Have you another case?”

 

“Not yet. You know how stubborn Lestrade is.”

 

John tactfully stopped himself from pointing out who was more stubborn between the DI and the consulting detective. Not that Sherlock would have noticed tactlessness. He took the cordless out of its cradle, and asked, “And when will he call?”

 

“Tomorrow, most likely. Have you ordered yet?”

 

“No,” he said, punching in the right number. “I’ve only been back for a minute.”

 

“Don’t exaggerate.”

 

“Don’t be pedantic.” Whatever response Sherlock had went ignored as John turned his back on him. “Hello? Yeah, hi. I’d like to place an order, for two…”

 

OoOoOoOoOo

 

The new P.E. teacher of St. Georgina’s School for Girls stood awkwardly next to the Principal, Ms. Bramble. The woman was shorter than he was, but held herself in rigid posture that made her fill the room. She was a woman of traditional values, and had hired the ex-soldier because she knew that he was a man of valour and discipline. Hopefully some would pass on to her girls.

 

“Girls, this is Dr. John Watson. He’ll be taking over for Mrs. Collins, who –” she coughed delicately here, not wanting to bring up the Lacrosse Debacle of 2011 “– will not be joining us for the rest of the school year. So. Do give your full cooperation to him, and join me in welcoming him to St. Georgina’s.”

 

There was a smattering of applause from Class A of Year 12, and Ms. Bramble beamed. Another factor in her choosing Dr. Watson was the fact that a large majority of the applicants had been rather fit, young men – people who would lead to bouts of distraction among hormonal teenagers. Dr. Watson would hardly cause swooning.

 

She was wrong, in this case. Three girls were already debating whether doing well or faking injury was the best method of garnering attention. One had decided that she’d volunteer for ‘extra credit’; another thought he was abominable and was planning his downfall accordingly. Quite a few were of the opinion that he wouldn’t last a month, and four didn’t care one way or the other. He was just a P.E. teacher, after all.

 

“Dr. Watson, would you like to say a few words?”

 

John cleared his throat, and gave a short smile to the teenagers in front of him. “Right, morning, girls. Ms. Bramble’s already explained who I am and what I’m doing here; you can call me Dr. Watson, or Coach. Now, I don’t expect you to attain the same level of discipline as my unit back in Afghanistan, but let’s see if I can’t whip you into shape.”

 

One girl snorted, but otherwise there was silence. A moment passed, and two, and finally Ms. Bramble – rather uncomfortably – started clapping.

 

As the girls (obligingly) joined in, John hid his grimace, and mentally counted the days ‘til the summer hols.

 

OoOoOoOoOo

 

John sighed in relief as he got off the bus and headed over to 221B. The day had been long, and even after a shower and a change (luckily, the teachers’ changing room was in better condition than all his past experience of student changing rooms), he felt exhausted.

 

He was jaded enough to not even blink when the door opened before he could even reach for his keys.

 

“Ah, excellent. We’re off to Jubilee Gardens.”

 

John sighed a bit. “Sightseeing?”

 

“No. Come along.”

 

“I just got back from work, Sherlock.”

 

“Yes, and I appreciate your impeccable timing. Now come on, we’ll need a taxi.”

 

John remained by the (now closed) door and watched as Sherlock strode to the side of the road in his usual fashion. “What is it this time?” he asked, and he wasn’t implying that he was in any way interested or agreeing to go with Sherlock, no sir.

 

“Spray painting.” Sherlock made a thoroughly disgusted sound as a taxi went past with a passenger already inside.

 

“And that’s enough for Lestrade to call you?”

 

“Don’t be stupid. Though I suppose painting is a bit misleading; ‘spray blooding’ doesn’t seem to work as well, I’m afraid.”

 

“Ah.” It was a simple syllable, but it managed to convey understanding, interest, and resignation all at once. “We’re stopping off at a drive through first.”

 

“If we must.”

 

A taxi was hailed, finally, and Sherlock took the time to explain the curiosities of the case, and why Lestrade had grudgingly decided to call him in. Midway through the gushing of wondering which chemicals had been used to keep the blood fluid enough to spray paint and set, Sherlock paused.

 

“Did you say you’d just gotten back from work?”

 

John didn’t exactly understand why the first thing that he wanted to say was “Yes, dear”, but he didn’t question it. He just nodded, concentrating on not dripping barbeque sauce over himself.

 

“You didn’t say what the interview was for.”

 

“It was a, ah, teaching position.”

 

“Okay.” Sherlock reached out and used a fingertip to wipe away a drop of sauce before it fell. He tasted it gingerly, and then gave a little “Hmm” before continuing to wax lyrical about anticoagulants.

 

John let his flatmate’s voice wash over him, and wondered if it was appropriate to bring an extra large Coke to a crime scene.

 

OoOoOoOoOo

 

“Aren’t you going to join the other girls?”

 

“Don’t want to.”

 

“I’m sorry?”

 

“Don’t want to.” The girl – rather unfortunately christened Fenchurch – set her jaw stubbornly, and then, deliberately tacked on as if she’d just remembered, “ _Coach_.”

 

“That’s fine,” John said mildly. “You can sit down.”

 

She regarded him with suspicion. “What?”

 

“I said, you can sit down.”

 

“Just like tha’?”

 

“Yes. Of course, missing your next class, that’s a shame, but since you won’t run…”

 

“What d’you mean missing my next class?”

 

John’s smile was thin. Years 7 to 11 were easy enough to deal with, but this particular Year 12 class would try the patience of a saint. “If you don’t want to run, you’ll sit in the gym for three hours. That means you’ll be out in time for lunch, but you’ll miss…Physics, I think?”

 

“You can’t do that! You can’t force me to sit here –”

 

“No, but I can get Mr. May to refuse you entry to his class. He is a friend of mine, shouldn’t be a problem.”

 

“I’ll fail!”

 

“You’ll fail _this_ class if you don’t run and don’t want to sit quietly. Your choice, Fenchurch.”

 

Fenchurch’s glare might have been more impressive if she had been a burly, high-ranking officer of the British Army – and probably not even then. John gazed back at her easily, and was slightly smug when she made a face and wordlessly went to join her classmates.

 

John checked his watch, and decided that twenty minutes would do. Perhaps twenty-five.

 

Or half an hour.

 

OoOoOoOoOo

 

“Ah, John. Do hold the door.”

 

“Mycroft.” The both of them shook hands in the doorway. Despite knowing it was an exercise in futility (both the Holmes brothers either didn’t understand or didn’t care for the nuances of small talk), John said, “Just been up to see Sherlock, then?”

 

Holmes the elder didn’t even bother to answer; his expression was more than enough of a response. John deflated a little, and made to walk away but for Mycroft clearing his throat.

 

“Enjoying the new job, I trust?”

 

John raised an eyebrow. Maybe he was mistaken about Mycroft and small talk. “Yeah, yes. I mean, it helps pay the bills.”

 

“Yes, every little bit helps.” Mycroft smiled. “Though, do remember that you’re in charge of sixteen-year-old girls. Good evening, John.”

 

“Yeah – good evening.” John shut the door behind him, then paused and frowned for a bit. What had - ? Ah, never mind. For once, the smell of food wafted down the stairs – John took them two at a time, stomach rumbling.

 

Really, he shouldn’t have been surprised to find Sherlock crouching on one of the dining chairs, searing human lungs with a blowtorch. He pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed. “Pizza?”

 

“Yeah, why not.”

 

OoOoOoOoOo

 

“Alright, drop and give me twenty.”

 

Groans.

 

“Right now, or I’ll up it to fifty.”

 

“We’re not soldiers, coach!”

 

John paused. This was true. “Fine. Fifteen.”

 

“Coach!”

 

OoOoOoOoOo

 

“Doctor! Over here!”

 

John ran and pressed his back against the wall beside Sergeant Donovan. She treated him to a fierce grin. “Where’s the freak?”

 

He rolled his eyes. “Around somewhere. How many of them are there?”

 

“Five that I can see. Pretty sure there’s one more hiding inside somewhere. Top right window.”

 

“Right.” John flexed his fingers. “On three?”

 

Sally nodded. “On three.”

 

“Three!”

 

OoOoOoOoOo

 

This. Was. Ridiculous. Eleven-year-old John Watson had never had to deal with this sort of thing. Was this really what the government thought was necessary for children to learn?

 

He was ready to scrap today’s ‘lesson’ plan – oh, so ready – but when the kids saw the radio on the court floor, well. He couldn’t squash their excitement like that. (Well, he _could_ , but he didn’t want to – and for more reasons than sentiment, just to be clear. He couldn’t very well defend himself physically if they decided to gang up on him.)

 

Right. He’d served in war. It couldn’t be that bad.

 

Five minutes later and he’d rescinded his opinion. It was worse than he could ever have imagined.

 

The music – if you could call it that, and he _really_ didn’t – was juvenile and called to mind images of primary colours and giant cuddly animals. Rather more offensively, it had phrases like ‘itsy bitsy’ and had ponies and ice-cream as subject matter!

 

But the worst effect was the one had on the children. As soon as the first strains had emerged from the speakers, they _transformed_. Every one of them was screaming along with the music, or jumping up and down, or violently head-banging. Sometimes all three at once.

 

John stood and stared and found himself utterly terrified that there _was_ Hell on Earth.

 

Worried that there’d be a serious injury within the next few seconds, he quickly hit the ‘stop’ button.

 

“Wha’s wrong, Coach?” Ashley batted long eyelashes at him and pushed her sleeves back up to her shoulders.

 

“This –,” John frowned. “You lot dance to this?”

 

The girls nodded, some chiming their agreement. John made a face. His hand hovered over the ‘play’ button, but he stopped himself from bothering. A little shudder wormed its way up his spine.

 

“Tell you what. We’ll have a free period today, I’ll replace this session tomorrow.”

 

“YAYYYY!”

 

It took carefully prying his laptop from Sherlock’s death grip (he’d fallen asleep on the sofa after about a week of not sleeping), several angry Google searches, and far too many hours – but he finally had the perfect CD for his eleven-year-olds. It had songs like Love Shack, My Generation, Red Alert, Jump in the Line – even Domino from someone called ‘Jessie J’ (Harry’s suggestion, there).

 

The kids did end up liking his song choices, which was a relief. And even if he did look a right ninny ‘dancercising’ with the girls – at least it was to good music.

 

OoOoOoOoOo

 

As he sent the girls off to do their warm up drills, John casually walked to the back of the bleachers, sitting down without fanfare. He kept silent for about a minute, before leaning back against the plastic chair and sighing.

 

“Why aren’t you with the rest of the class, Linda?”

 

Linda didn’t answer, dipping her chin and letting her strawberry blond hair cover her face.

 

“C’mon. I may not be a psychologist, but I’m not too bad at listening to people.” Better than certain flatmates, anyway.

 

"It's nothing, Coach," was the muttered answer as Linda twisted her fingers together.

 

"It's not nothing. Family problems? Friends?" John grimaced a bit before forcing out, "Boys?"

 

Her head bowed further, and John cursed inwardly.

 

“C’mon, kiddo. Tell me.”

 

“You’ll laugh.”

 

“I won’t.” Laughing was the furthest thing from his mind, especially considering the subject of discussion. Give him murderous psychopaths any day.

 

“‘Kay, you won’t but. But you’re always telling us to be strong and I’m not being strong now, and…”

 

“Linda.”

 

The resulting confession was rambling and tinged with a certain amount of relief. It basically boiled down to Linda thinking that the boy she liked liked her back because of him being nice to her and saying she was girlfriend material, et cetera, then his suddenly becoming a jerk when she confessed that she liked him. There were about three other people involved in this love polygon, including a substitute teacher. John was slightly overwhelmed, and wondered if there had been this amount of drama when he’d been in school.

 

Finally, there was a silence. Relative silence, considering they were in a closed gym with a class of sixteen-year-olds.

 

John cleared his throat.

 

“Thing is, Linda, sometimes…sometimes boys can’t articulate their feelings well. Something gets messed up in their brains and what they mean to say and what they actually say are two different things.”

 

The girl shrunk in on herself some more. “Oh.”

 

John nudged her gently. “Sometimes, though, they’re right twats who don’t know a good thing when they see one.”

 

There was a quickly-smothered giggle, and Linda looked up at John with wide eyes, her hand over her mouth.

 

He kept his expression as deadpan as he could. “Would you like me to shoot him?”

 

“No!” If possible, her eyes had grown wider. Then she bit her lower lip. “Can you do that?”

 

John laughed.

 

By the end of class, Linda was all calmed down, and had furtively hugged John before hurriedly scurrying after her friends. ‘T was all a bit surreal, really. It sort of felt like he was in some sort of soap opera. He tried to put it out of his mind, though. There was the weekend to look forward to. And Sherlock had texted earlier about some sort of homicide, which was always good.

 

Well, not _good_ – obviously homicides were bad, he meant –

 

“You helped Linda.”

 

He didn’t jump into the air or shout loudly, but it was a near thing. Fenchurch leaned by the door, face betraying none of her apparent sneakiness.

 

“Uh…yes?”

 

The girl didn’t respond to this, which weirded John out more. After an awkward moment, he went back to putting away his newly washed socks. (They were safer in the school than in his wardrobe at 221B, it had to be said.)

 

He’d almost forgotten about his visitor. Almost.

 

“I don’t get you, Coach.”

 

“You don’t have to get me.” John shut the locker and picked up his bag. “Have a good weekend, Fenchurch.”

 

OoOoOoOoOo

 

“You’re in a good mood.”

 

“Good day at work.” John paused, then, and finally noticed what was on the table. “What’s this?”

 

Sherlock drew himself up to his full height, chin upturned proudly. “This, John, is dinner.”

 

“No, seriously. What’s this?”

 

The younger man’s face dropped. “It’s dinner, and I made it.”

 

John surveyed the plates. It did look like food, and edible food at that. But there was still that niggling feeling… “And since when do you cook?”

 

“Of course I know how to cook, John,” was the impatient answer. “Cooking’s like science. Add specific amounts of chemicals at specific time intervals. Easy.”

 

“Uh-huh.” Sherlock wasn’t looking in his direction, so John very quickly and surreptitiously sniffed at the nearest plate. Smelled like food. Smelled like damn good food, actually. “And why have you never cooked before this?”

 

“No reason to. Are you going to eat, or not?”

 

John hesitated.

 

“Oh, for God’s sake – here, I’ll try some first.” Impatiently, Sherlock jabbed a fork into the noodles, twirling and popping the resulting mouthful into his, er, mouth. “There, see? S’fine.”

 

Rolling his eyes at this childish display, John did nevertheless relent. “Anything good on telly?”

 

“Top Gear’s on, I thought.”

 

Dinner was actually quite good (as was the entertainment), and made John feel a little bad about being so suspicious about it (though, you had to admit that he was entitled his misgivings). He rose to his feet, apology on the tip of his tongue, when he abruptly tipped sideways. His muscles refused to cooperate as he fell to the floor in a heap.

 

“Sherlock – the hell –”

 

He saw rather than felt Sherlock reach down and take his pulse. The consulting detective had his eyes on his watch as he said, “To be fair, I spiked your drink. Not the food.”

 

Brilliant.

 

“‘M gonna…kill you.”

 

“Hmm. No twitching.” Sherlock reached into John’s pocket and fished out his phone, entering John’s password and then dialling. “Lestrade? It was the twin.” That done, he returned the phone and shot a smile at John. “Thanks, John.”

 

“F’ck you.”

 

“I’d have done the test on myself, but it is rather hard to make observations when you can’t move your head…or anything, for that matter. And there is a murderer on the loose. Was.” Another smile. “You understand.”

 

The retort John wanted to give was along the lines of “you’d better understand that once I can move again you’re _dead_ ” – along the lines of it, but with loads more swearwords thrown in. Rather unfortunately, his tongue sat like a fat dead thing in his mouth, useless and unmoving. Oh God, and now there was some sort of itch growing between his shoulder blades, nooo.

 

“Don’t worry, it should wear off within twelve hours. I’ll leave the telly on.”

 

It ended up being a full fifteen hours before John could actually get to his hands and knees (with a lot of pins and needles). He supposed he should feel lucky that Sherlock draped a blanket over him before disappearing out the front door.

 

He also supposed that Sherlock wouldn’t be coming home in awhile. The man wasn’t called a genius for nothing.

 

Rather annoyingly, when John regained full use of all his muscles, he discovered that his gun was missing. He narrowed his eyes. Definitely a genius.

 

OoOoOoOoOo

 

“What manner of gossip has distracted you this morning?”

 

The hushed chattering became silent, although the girls stayed close together. John, who hadn’t looked up at them yet, didn’t notice; he was placing the bag of balls on the ground. “Have Rahul and Stephanie broken up again?”

 

Someone stifled a laugh, and another girl shushed her. This caught John’s attention.

 

“What’s wrong?” he asked, worry spiking. A quick headcount had him relaxing, but only slightly.

 

“Didn’t you notice the rozzers outside, Coach?”

 

As a matter of fact, he had. But the police were quite regular visitors to the school – there was always a stabbing, or a drugged out student, or (very rarely) a Career Day to attend. So he’d just put them out of mind.

 

“I assume you’re going to tell me why they’re here?”

 

The girls exchanged glances. “They say Donna’s dead, Coach,” said Linda, finally. “Murdered.”

 

Donna – Donna, Donna, Donna…Oh, she was the girl with the ‘debilitating’ asthma that got her out of P.E. “And is she?”

 

“Dunno, Coach. No body, but the p’lice were asking questions.”

 

“Uh-huh. Well, since they’re not in here right now, let’s get on to today’s lesson.” He took out one of the balls. “Basketball.”

 

This announcement was met with complaints, but John wasn’t fazed. “Yes, you have to. You’ve got a syllabus to get through, though how the government came up with a syllabus for P.E. is beyond me.”

 

John then started with the lesson proper – the first half of this double-period would be the theoretical portion where he explained the rules and regulations and whatnot. He’d stage a mock match during the second half and hope that too many injuries wouldn’t be incurred.

 

Not even halfway through his explanation on defensive hand positions (where one wasn’t allowed to stop bouncing the ball), though…

 

“Imagine you’re about to masturbate; put your hand in your inner thigh, near the pelvis. Like this.”

 

Some of the girls started giggling.

 

John threw them a withering look. “Come now, surely we’re all grown up enough to not snicker cheaply at the word masturbate. Least I didn’t say wank.”

 

There was more giggling; Marjorie and Sadie were clutching at each other, faces pink.

 

“Honestly, maybe this’s why the school doesn’t want to have Sex Ed classes, if you lot are any indication. Now come on – we have our hand here, making sure you’re still handling the ball – stop giggling.”

 

“You have to admit it’s kinda funny, Coach.”

 

John wanted to shake his head and smile wryly, but rightly deduced that doing so would be unwise. So he just rolled his eyes and went to continue. “Anyway, you stop bouncing, you’d better be prepared to – oh, God, what is it now?”

 

A few of the girls – and here ‘a few’ meant ‘all’ – were whispering to and nudging each other. They had the attention span of newborn kittens, honestly. He was about to berate them when –

 

“Oh, sorry, John. Didn’t think you’d have a class on now.”

 

John didn’t even bother turning around. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose and asked, “How long?”

 

“Long enough. I do like the shorts.”

 

Giving in, John swivelled on the spot and watched as Sherlock strode up to him. “You’re here about Donna?”

 

“The Devlin girl? Yep. Parents called me.”

 

“Wait, are these the same Devlins that –”

 

“Yes.” Sherlock gave a practised flick of his head, resettling his curls (someone made a worshipful sound). Not that they really needed resettling. “Complete waste of time on this occasion as well.”

 

John’s reply – rebuke – was interrupted.

 

“Um, excuse me sir, but is Donna okay?”

 

John looked over and was part-amused, part-disturbed to see Fenchurch (and Marjorie and Anna) crowded behind him like he was a shield against Sherlock. Rather more disturbing was the fierce surge of protectiveness he felt when he turned back to the man; his reply had better be tactful, or else.

 

“Yes.”

 

John raised both eyebrows, as if to say, “Really?”

 

When Sherlock mimicked his expression, John huffed a little and narrowed his eyes. He also became aware of three or four hands clutching at the back his T-shirt.

 

Finally Sherlock broke the silence, the corner of his mouth turned up in a tiny, tiny smirk. “Donna Devlin is a C-student, has a boyfriend three years her senior, and a short temper. She decided to ‘run away’ last night after an argument with her brother, and discovered that her asthma is more than a convenient excuse to get out of sports.” He shrugged. “Didn’t take me long to find her in the parking lot of the Tesco on High Street.”

 

“How did you make the jump from ‘asthma’ to ‘Tesco parking lot’?” John asked, gesticulating with his hands to further emphasize the huge gap in his friend’s thought processes. (Or, if not his thought processes, his storytelling ability.)

 

“Ah, ah, ah.” Sherlock waggled his finger, winking. (A few girls looked close to swooning.) “If I gave away my secrets, no one would hire me, John. And then who’d pay the rent?”

 

“I would,” he replied, unimpressed. But he let it be. It was better not to discuss cases in front of schoolchildren, especially if there was more to the story – not that John thought Sherlock was being particularly considerate of their feelings. He was probably being belligerent, as usual.

 

“Please. The Devlins are ‘ _ever so grateful_ ’. Apparently they’re going to ‘ _tell all their friends_ ’ about me. Won’t be able to walk out the front door without the paparazzi hounding me, I expect.”

 

“Okay, that’s great, Sherlock. Now, are you going to go? I do have a class to teach.”

 

“Teaching? You call using masturbation a teaching technique, John? You could be arrested for less.”

 

“I was explaining how to block. Maybe you _should_ stick around, pick up some tips.”

 

“I know how to play basketball.”

 

“Really?” He really should’ve downplayed the genuine surprise in his voice, but while the separate concepts of Sherlock and sports made sense, the amalgamation of the two refused to compute.

 

“Ooh, Coach.” Insistent tugging made him turn to Fenchurch, who had a frighteningly eager glint in her eyes. “Coach, you should have a one-on-one with him!”

 

“What?”

 

“You know, a basketball match. As, like, a demo for the rest of us.” As soon as the rest of the girls cottoned on, they started chiming their agreement.

 

John was inclined to be suspicious of his girls. Their laziness knew no bounds (although he was proud to say he’d curtailed it somewhat).

 

“And _none_ of you play well enough to be able to participate in a demonstration yourselves?”

 

As if on cue, the whole class shook their heads, eyes wide and ‘earnest’.

 

Sigh. “No.” He attempted to talk over the loud groans of disappointment. “ _No_. Sherlock’s very busy, I’m sure he has another case –”

 

“Actually,” said Sherlock, and John closed his eyes in supplication. “I don’t. That’s why I’m here, you know.”

 

John said nothing.

 

Fenchurch was still right behind him. “Go on, Coach,” she whispered, sounding like the proverbial devil on his shoulder. “You can do him.”

 

He wondered at the word choice, but ignored it. Truth be told, he wanted to see how this played out. And they’d passed into the second half of the double-period anyway.

 

“Fine then.”

 

The girls’ excitement seemed to grow as Sherlock shed his scarf and coat. They forewent the plastic seats and sat cross-legged just outside the line demarcating the boundaries of the basketball court, chatting animatedly amongst themselves.

 

John and the girls watched as the lanky consulting detective proceeded to toe off his shoes and remove his socks. He set them to the side and then shrugged as he rolled up his sleeves. “What? I don’t have trainers.”

 

“Didn’t say a thing.”

 

John stepped up to Sherlock, feeling shorter than usual clad in his, er, shorts.

 

“First to 3, then? Or are we playing Horse?”

 

Sherlock did his usual squint-off-into-the-distance look he usually had when he was being particularly patronising. “Oh, I think Horse isn’t in keeping with what you’re trying to teach this class. But to add a measure of jeopardy, why not first to score?”

 

“Why can’t you say ‘first to one’?”

 

“Numbers are irrelevant.”

 

“That’s not what you said last night,” John said under his breath, “when you were –”

 

“Can we start?”

 

His lips twitched. “Which side of the court do you want?”

 

“Also irrelevant.”

 

“We’ll keep this position, then.” John turned his head to address his girls. “We’re going to play until one of us scores first. Try to pay attention?”

 

For the first time ever, the girls’ chime of “yessir!” was actually believable – John didn’t know whether to be relieved or vaguely suspicious. He settled for turning back to Sherlock.

 

“Ready?”

 

“Yes.”

 

It was…nothing John expected.

 

If he was being completely objective, he’d have said that they were pretty evenly matched. Sherlock was taller, but he was impeded by his silk shirt and almost-too-tight trousers and bare feet. John was the complete opposite – but he was fast, and he was the one with more knowledge and experience.

 

Or so he thought.

 

At least the match lasted long enough for it not to be that significant a blow to his ego. Sherlock wasn’t _good_ , but he knew how to play. He knew how to dribble, and how to block shots, and how to close-out.

 

The bastard even knew how much John favoured his left side when playing.

 

It had been close. But Sherlock had ultimately sunk the first point.

 

They stood under the hoop with the girls hooting and clapping off to the side (though it should be mentioned that Ivonne had actually fallen asleep). Both were panting. Sherlock, hands on his knees, grinned up at John.

 

“Believe me now?”

 

John caught his breath first. “Well, I have to, don’t I?” He shook his head. “Now will you leave me to my class?”

 

“You’re not being very nice, John. I let you tag along when I work.”

 

“Because you need my input.” He smiled sardonically. “It doesn’t go both ways, sadly. Shoo.”

 

Sherlock straightened and sent him a withering look. Perhaps, if he’d been the type for such displays, he would have even tacked on a rude gesture. As it was, the consulting detective just headed to where he’d deposited his belongings, avoiding any adoring teenagers in his way. It didn’t take him long to don his coat and secure his scarf around his neck.

 

“Well, this was all very instructive,” Sherlock said loftily, “but I have things to do.” He turned and walked towards the exit with his shoes in hand. “I’ll see you later, John,” he tossed over a shoulder.

 

John ineffectually and half-heartedly glared at his back.

 

“Way to score, Coach,” said Flora, grinning. Some of the girls giggled their agreement.

 

“Wh – I lost.”

 

“Not that. _Y’know_. Mr. Sherlock.”

 

Why did everyone assume – “No, it’s – we, we share a flat.”

 

_Ow_. How come his ears always felt like they were bleeding after girls squealed, and how come girls always insisted on squealing so loudly?

 

He complained about this, rather unsuccessfully, as his class chattered and nattered around him. Fenchurch teased him and he ribbed her right back. They all willingly formed two groups so he could start them on dribbling drills, and as the gym filled with echoes of their laughter, well –

 

John Watson couldn’t help but think that he could get used to this job.


End file.
